The king is dead.
Long live the king!
And thus it had been for centuries.
On July 11, 1307, having determined in his fury that he
would take to his horse himself and lead his troops
against the wayward Robert Bruce of Scotland, Edward I
expired. And despite the ravages of age that had begun to
tear at the mighty monarch, a very great king, indeed, had
died. Known as Longshanks, Edward I had been the epitome
of the image of royalty: tall, a warrior king, a gleaming
Plantagenet, a man who had earned respect and admiration
through his strength and prowess, and the determination of
his will. Wise, wily, and cunning, brutal to his enemies,
a man who had brought England to law and power, he had
reigned long and given England a position of prominence in
Europe that could not be disputed by any man.
The king is dead.
His people mourned.
His enemies rejoiced.
Long live the king.
The father was not the son, though he was his father's
namesake.
Edward II began his rule by ignoring his father's deathbed
request that his bones be carded with the vanguard
marching against the Scots, and that they be carded into
the war with the Scots until those unruly barbarians were
brought to heel, completely subjugated, ready to bow to
their overlord, the English monarch. Edward the father was
delivered into Waltham Abbey to await a more regal burial,
and the new king immediately called his favorite back to
his side, a man greatly disliked by his nobles, Piers
Gaveston. He rode against the Scots, but at his own pace.
He rode to the borders of Ayrshire, and then retreated for
want of supplies, never striking a single blow against the
Scots.
Whereas England had just lost one of her mightiest
monarchs ever, to be replaced by a frivolous mind with
personal pleasures of a far greater import than the power
of his realm, Scotland had been nurturing a very different
man.
Upon claiming the throne of Scotland, Robert Bruce had
fought for the right to be recognized as king. He had been
reduced to running through the forests of Scotland with no
more than a few men, while many of the great barons of the
land remained against him, and he would have forever as an
enemy the family of John Comyn, the Red, dead due to the
king, whether it had been Robert Bruce to strike the fatal
blow, or whether the deed had been done by his followers.
But in his desperate days, he learned. He had known the
nobility and peerage of his land, and that of England. In
his early days of penury and desperation, he learned the
mettle of the common man of Scotland, and he grew in the
wisdom of his most simple folk.
There were lessons to be had in those days which he would
never forget Power did not always come with strength of
arms; it was in the hearts and souls of his countrymen,
and it was for a glory greater than gold, power, property
or prestige that they would fight. It was for the more
elusive glories of freedom and nationality. He proved
himself before his people, risking his own life, waging
his own mighty battles--as the old English king had once
done--and with each passing day, became the warrior king
so desperately needed by a country too long forced to her
knees. The price he paid for his crown was heavy: family
members executed, his wife and child taken by the English
to be held through many long years.
Despite the cruelties done to him and the strengths that
he had gained, he remained throughout his days of hardship
and beyond an exceptionally merciful man for his day. He
gained his power slowly. Step by step. And just as he
quickly decided on a path of benevolence, so, as well, he
never forgot those who supported him, especially in the
early days, and in time, those who rode by his side
throughout were richly rewarded.
The Scottish king had another policy. Well aware that even
with a weak leader now at the head of the great English
force, the power of the English far outweighed his own. He
made it a point never to engage in a pitched battle with
the English. The Scotsmen, accustomed to a fight in which
they must constantly attack and disappear, were experts at
strike and run assaults. They knew their land as no others
couldn the forests, waterways, valleys, mountains and
hills.
The death of Edward I bought the Scots something they
dearly needed.
Time.
And time became the greatest ally of Robert Bruce. At the
death of the great Plantagenet king, he was still the
leader of little more than outlaw bands. His first order
of business was to subdue the great barons of Scotland who
stood against him. He proved not only his courage, but
that he was a brilliant strategist, capable of using any
weapon at hand, be that weapon tact and diplomacy, or an
onslaught of arms. In a matter of years, he had begun to
rally his kingdom around him.
Edward II, reputed to be large and as fine in appearance
as his family name would warrant, was busily engaged in
keeping his dear companion, Piers Gaveston, at his side--
and keeping those who heartily resented Gaveston at bay.
Matters came to a head and Gaveston was banished to
Ireland.
At this time, Edward called for an army to invade
Scotland. He came with all the fantastic trappings of war
with which his father had ridden. He trampled the
lowlands, and planned to wage battle for the heart of the
country.
But Bruce would not bring his army for a pitched battle.
He watched the English--and then swept down upon the
northern counties of his enemies.
Edward II did nothing to support his desperate barons. And
so it was that the English lords of those northern
counties turned to a desperate measure--they sent forth
envoys to pay the Scottish king to leave them in peace.
And thus began a period in which Robert Bruce, so lately
no more than an outlaw king with a forest bed, began to
turn the tide against his enemies.
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